Ain't Got Time (For Nothing Else)
by metacognitive
Summary: This is not the first car they've stolen.


_notes: title from marvin gaye's "too busy thinking about my baby." general warnings for implied sexual content, underage drug use, and grand theft auto :)_

* * *

Vic Bernal's skirt is too short for this kind of work, and when Curly tells her so she laughs.

"This ain't work," she says, "'less you're planning on stripping it. You pressed for cash?"

"Not all of us got a sister sending money every Monday," Curly says, because he's right for once and they both know it.

Doesn't matter to Vic, though, if her shrug is any indication. Vic let it slip around the time Curly stopped pretending he was trying to make her his steady—her big sister sends her money every week without fail, more than she needs, really, not that it keeps Vic from burning through it fast as she can. Short as her skirt is, it's also brand new, and the shirt she tugged on after Curly got it off her looks it, too. She has it buttoned up just enough that he can see the lace of her bra when she turns the right way; when she catches him looking, she grins.

"Keep your eyes peeled," he says instead of dragging her into the backseat, "I ain't tryna get a licking 'cause you wasn't acting like a lookout."

"It's dinnertime," she says, but turns her head away from him anyway, hip cocked like they're not committing a felony. They're in a nicer neighborhood, not Socy but near enough that it has him nervous. She tells him, "Nobody's gonna catch us."

"Don't mean we should take our sweet time," he says, and then, "aha!" when he gets the car to start.

Vic grins at him—not that famous Bernal one, the upturned smirk that hides at the corner of both girls' mouths, but a more genuine smile, all teeth and gums and unbridled joy. Sometimes Curly regrets not asking her to be his girl, and then she'll steal all his cigarettes _and_ his lighter and he's back to normal.

He motions her over, and soon the two of them are cruising down the street, stealth as can be. Vic messes with the radio, switches from Elvis to some fucking Tommy Roe song, of all things. He glances at her, sidelong, and says, "You kidding me?"

"You're makin' me dizzy," she sings to him, smiling, and Curly can't help himself from grinning right back. Her accent comes out sometimes—when she's tired, or mad, or in a good enough mood to sing. She's got a real nice voice; Curly keeps telling her to head down to the radio station and get a part-time, figures it might get her brushing shoulders with someone who could get her a record deal. Or something. Curly ain't exactly sure how all of that works.

Vic's lazy as hell, though, and would rather call her sister to wheedle more cash out of her than offer to babysit for a quick buck. Curly can't even blame her—he'd rather steal shit, even if he has the money on him. Old habits die hard.

If any girl from this side of town is going to make it big, though, it's _Bernalita_, louder and brasher than her sister but just as smart, even if she likes to pretend she ain't. Doesn't mean she hasn't been up to her fair share of bullshit—Curly knows she was running around with Jennings for a hot second, almost tracked him down and beat the shit out of him just off principle. Hell, she's been running around with Curly for months now. Clearly neither of them are perfect.

But she's got movie star good looks, and he thinks she should take advantage of that. Last time he said so she told him he didn't have to try so hard, she was fixing to sleep with him anyway, and he didn't feel like getting called sentimental so he let it go.

_Can't Take My Eyes Off You _comes on and she starts crooning, tosses her hair back while she sings. Must be the highlight of her week, the way she throws herself into the little performance. She's still smiling, that sweet one, and Curly just shakes his head at her, tries not to let her see that he's grinning as wide as he is.

He says instead, "Where to, Vic?"

She hums, lifts her hand to the half-open window and lets the wind rush over her exposed fingers. It's late spring, her sister still gone for another little wild, and the two of them are trying to take advantage of that. Curly was there when Lisa dragged her by her hair back to their home, and as funny as it is now, there's something a little scary about her big sister, no matter how itty bitty she actually is.

He's not sure how all of this has brought them here, in a stolen car while Vic sings love songs and Curly wonders _what if_, but that's where they're at, and he's never been one to question these things.

Vic says, "You want some grass?"

He thinks there's a metaphor, or simile, or whatever the fuck Curtis is on about when they drive home from school together, for how he feels. The kid's willing to get skunked up as any other Eastside hood, lately, and the three of them have spent plenty of time bumming around getting high now that the semester's winding down. Either way, Curly's pleased as can be. Vicky buys from Solis' crew and their product is the best in town.

He says, "Yeah," and soon enough he's found them an out-of-the-way corner of a parking lot to light up. He says, watching her fingers curl over her lighter, "We could fuck again," and Vic looks unimpressed.

"Can you let me light up first," she drawls, and he watches her cheeks hollow as she inhales, blunt burning cherry-red in the low-light. She exhales, says, "You think they noticed their car's gone?"

"Dunno," he says, reaching out so he can take a hit, too, "like you said, it was dinnertime. Most folks're gonna stay at home, after." She hums, affirmative, and then he asks, "Why'd you wanna steal this one, anyway? Seen nicer ones on the way over."

"Oh," she says, breezy, "I don't like Kendra McAllister none, 's all."

Curly stares at her. "Is this her car."

She shakes her head, says, smile razor-sharp, "Her daddy's."

"Right," he says. Kendra's brother is in his year, middle-class, a runner. If his sister's anything like him, he can understand why Vic don't like her. He might be Ponyboy's teammate, but if even Curtis gets to scowling when he's brought up, then Curly knows his distaste isn't coming out of nowhere.

He ain't fond of being called a wetback, see?

"This gonna keep her from pissing you off?" he asks her, and she laughs. The air is already smoky, and her fingertips are cold when they brush his.

"Don't care," she says, tossing her hair back again, "I'm having a good time, ain't you? This is fun."

"'S a felony," he says, and then she puts her face close to his, exhales against his mouth and then slips him some tongue. He says, after, "Save the rest for later?"

She says, "Yeah," and they end up in the backseat like usual.

It's not that they end up in trouble; it's that they both like looking for it. Curly's still got his hand up her skirt, kissing behind her ear when he sees the police lights. He freezes, and Vic pulls back to look at him, confused. He puts his other hand over her mouth, carefully, because she'll bite him if she thinks he's acting up, and whispers, "_Cops_."

Her eyes go wide. They scramble, quiet as can be, back to the front seat. Vic tugs her skirt down, buttons her blouse all the way up—it's well past dinner time now, the streets dark and no lights in this parking lot, besides. If he starts the car it'll be clear what they were up to, car reeking of smoke and the windows fogged up for a couple different reasons.

Vic says, voice hushed, "Wait. I don't see them."

"They were there."

Her voice goes back to normal: "Christ, Curly, I thought they was comin' straight for us. What, you see a car and get spooked?"

"Lights were on."

She gives him an unimpressed look; she looks a lot like her sister when she does that. "Clearly they didn't see us," she says, and slumps back in her seat, doesn't care that her skirt rides back up. "Sheesh, you about gave me a heart attack."

"You afraid of the police?"

"I ain't tryna get hauled in on possession," she says, tilting her head towards the dash, where their stash is safely ensconced. "_Or_ get caught with my skirt off."

"It was definitely around your ankles, doll," Curly says, and she digs her knuckle into his bicep, "_hey_."

She blows a stray of hair out of her face, shakes her head at him. Her mascara's a little smudged, and he reaches out, rubs at it. Doesn't make it any better, but doesn't make it any worse. She makes a face at him, pushes his hand away only to curl her fingers in his afterwards. He asks her, "What now?"

She purses her mouth, seems to think on it for a little while. Curly wonders what she really gets out of running 'round with him—the breaking law parts, the running wild while her sister can't catch her. He'll admit he's a little afraid of Lisa Bernal. Maybe it's because she managed to snag Tim for a summer, the year before, or maybe it's because everyone knows she sold out her Texan steady and as good as danced on his grave afterwards.

She's scary, alright. Curly can't be the first to think that.

And if she finds out that her kid sister's been out stealing cars and playing lookout with Curly, she ain't going to stop and ask whose idea it was. She'll drag Vic home by her hair again and probably dump Curly on the far side of town. She might even be nice enough to tell Tim where to find him.

Curly's still feeling it, which is why he says, instead of letting Vicky answer his question, "Remember when Tim was chasing after Lisa?" and she makes a face.

"Why're you remindin' me of that."

"I had a thing for you, that summer," he tells her, and her expression softens.

"Yeah?" she says, rubbing her thumb over the back of his hand, "you got a thing for me still, Shepard?"

"Nah," he says, stretching the syllable out, but then he leans in to kiss her and she tilts her head into it, raises her free hand to cup his face.

She says, "Let's head out," and lets Curly kiss her again before he starts the car.

It's not until they're back at his place, both starving, that Curly realizes the error in their decision.

"We can't keep this car."

"What?" Vicky's been staring at her nails for half the drive. They're distracting—look one color until light hits them the right way. If Angela didn't hate Vic so much she'd probably appreciate them, too. Curly's not sure what that's all about, nor does he care.

He says, "Fuzz finds stolen property 'round here, they'll charge me as an adult."

"You ain't eighteen for another little while," she says, and finally looks at him. Her eyes are bloodshot; she's not one to shed tears, or else she could claim Curly said something mean to her and get Tim telling him off like he ain't said dumb shit to Luz before.

Tim's got a soft spot for Vic, and Curly knows it ain't because he's still holding out for her big sister. He thinks maybe it's because she's a little familiar, growing up like they did, raised by someone who wasn't her ma or her daddy. She's got a lot in common with the Shepards, both Bernal girls do, really. She ain't half as angry about it, though. Not like Lisa. Not like Angela. She seems untouchable, sometimes, like nothing could drag her down to earth if it tried.

It's why Curly's convinced she'll get out of town, movie star good looks or no. Vicky's got the _je ne sais quoi_—nothing else to say about it. The Shepards might be doomed to Tulsa, but the Bernals will set it all aflame and laugh about it if it means getting out. He's not even jealous.

They're still trying to figure out what to do when Tim walks out of the house. They're parked out back, shooting down each other's ideas, and he stops in his tracks when he realizes there's an unfamiliar car stalling behind the house. He's dressed a little nicer than normal, a jacket slung over one shoulder. His hand hovers, uncertain, over the knife Curly knows he keeps on him at all times. Curly's not in the mood to play games, though, so he waves him over, rolls down the window so he can ask for advice.

Tim leans on the driver's door, says, "Let me guess. You got a question for me."

"A couple," Curly says.

Vic leans into him, voice sickeningly sweet as she says, "Hi Tim."

He looks at her for a long moment, makes Curly squirm in his seat. He doesn't say anything to her, just says to them, "What did you do."

Curly considers his options. Settles on, "As you can see. This ain't my car."

Tim leans back, inhales deeply. "Are you tryna get locked up?"

"Quizás," he says, and watches Tim pinch the bridge of his nose. At some point he and Vicky started holding hands again, and he glances at her, sees that she's helplessly amused like she ain't an accessory to all this. "Listen. It's—"

"I don't wanna hear this," Tim says, flat, "I'm heading out to see Luz."

"Ain't it late?" Vic asks.

"It's eight," Tim says. His face is impassive—Angela can get the expression down pat, but she's too short-tempered for it to last long. Curly's also real good at pissing her off; a lifetime of practice will do that, he figures. Vic, of course, doesn't take the hint.

"Kinda late for dinner."

"Not for a show," he drawls, "and no, Curly, I ain't dumping the car for you."

"_Tim_." Curly doesn't whine.

"Solis might take it," Tim says, shrugging. He turns away, heads towards his parked car, and calls over his shoulder, "Leave it here and I'll skin you."

"Dammit, Tim," Curly says, loud enough that he can hear it, but all he gets is a middle finger. Next to him, Vicky looks considering.

"We _could_ just—"

"I don't even have Solis's number," Curly says, and she blinks at him.

"Oh," she says, "I do. I thought maybe we could just drive it out to the edge of town. Crash into a ditch, maybe."

He blinks at her. Says, "How would we get back?"

"Good point," she says. She tilts her head a little, something cunning about her expression when she says, "Besides, whoever tows it might call the McAllisters and I want them as shit outta luck as possible, so." She shrugs. Grins big again, like she's not in the middle of causing trouble. "Let's head out to Brumly, Curly, I know where Isaiah stays. He's a good cook too."

He says, instead of unpacking all of that, and still hungry besides, "I ain't a fan of you being on first name basis with him."

He starts the car anyway; of course she likes it out in Brumly, more like her sister than she'll admit. It doesn't matter, not to Curly—soon enough she's singing to him again, and he figures the night's been success based off that alone.


End file.
